


Never Another Lover, Always Another Chance

by ConsultingWriter



Series: The Never Another Trilogy [2]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Everything's not magically better, M/M, Mycroft is a good big brother, Sequel, Sherlock really is just an idiot, Some Fluff, Some sadness, but it just might get there, like a really small amount, make up fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-04-04
Updated: 2013-04-04
Packaged: 2017-12-07 09:59:55
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,190
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/747221
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ConsultingWriter/pseuds/ConsultingWriter
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock ins't doing so well after John leaves. It seems big brother is going to have to step in for him. Sequel to Never Another.</p><p>  <b><i>I wake up and teardrops—they fall down like rain. I put on that old song we danced to and then, I head off into my job.  Guess not much has changed. Punch the clock; head for home, check the phone—just in case— go to bed, dream of you. That's what I'm doin' these days.—These Days, Rascal Flatts</i></b></p><p> </p><p>  <i>Swallowing the sleeping pills dry, Sherlock dropped his clothes carelessly on the floor, reaching dazedly for his pajama bottoms and the tattered army shirt that had been in the dirty clothes pile when John had left. The detective pulled the shirt on; ignoring the smell of stale sweat that lingered around the armpits of the shirt he inhaled deeply at the neckline. Since it had never been washed it still smelled strongly of the doctor, even after a month of the dark haired man wearing it.</i></p>
            </blockquote>





	Never Another Lover, Always Another Chance

**Author's Note:**

> Sequel to Never Another, as requested.  
> Sorry if its not as good as Never Another, but I tried. It was really late when I wrote this and I'll probably beta this later, but I hope you enjoy as is. Don't forget to review and let me know what you think!

 

_I wake up and teardrops—they fall down like rain. I put on that old song we danced to and then, I head off into my job.  Guess not much has changed. Punch the clock; head for home, check the phone—just in case— go to bed, dream of you. That's what I'm doin' these days.—These Days, Rascal Flatts_

 Grey eyes snapped open like the shutter on a camera and stared blankly at the ceiling blankly for minutes before a long slender hand reached up to touch the cheeks under said eyes. Odd. The cheeks were wet again. The owner of the hand and the eyes sat up and turned the blank look to the blank spot on the bed beside him. The hand crept over the blankets and stroked the spot affectionately before pulling back to settle in the man’s lap.

Sherlock turned and swung his feet over the bed and stood, striding to the old “boombox” that he’d seen in a thrift shop once. He'd bought it as a present for Jo–for _him_ on their anniversary, but he couldn't even do that. And like a waterfall his mother's harsh words came pouring over him.

_"You’re a **poison** Sherlock! You destroy any relationship you touch! Mine and your father's, Mycroft's, everyone's! Why are you even here, I cannot believe I brought a monster like you into this world._ "

Pale digits grip dark locks and pull, yanking until eyes tear involuntarily at the burning in his scalp. Of course she was right, Mummy was always right. No. He told himself firmly. Mycroft said that Mummy never meant those things. That it was just an imbalance in her brain. Logically, Sherlock knew this. It still didn’t matter.

Grinding his teeth at the thought he dropped his hands and continued with his recently acquired routine.  He pressed the play button on the stereo and slowly began to dance as the music filled the room, remembering the first time he had heard the song.

_Sherlock sat in his chair with his knees pulled to his chest. Bored. So, so bored. He twitched when muffled, low sound quality music filled the air._

_“On the floor of Tokyo, or down in London town to go.” John started to sing along with the male’s voice wiggling his hips where he stood by the desk, hand still hovering over a clunky black box with large buttons on it; one of them was pressed down and Sherlock concluded that was where the music was coming from._

_With a bright grin John made his way slowly to Sherlock, wiggling his shoulders and hips the entire way “With the record selection, and the mirror's reflection,” he spun in a circle rolling his full body “I'm dancing with myself.”_

_Sherlock watched him, eyebrow cocked. How fortunate John was, to have a mind that was so easily entertained. What a simple life he would lead if Sherlock hadn’t found him when he did._

_Oblivious to Sherlock’s darkly amused thoughts John continued his foolish dance “If I looked all over the world and there's every type of girl.” He looked and Sherlock and smirked at that before continuing to the next line “But your empty eyes seem to pass me by—leave me dancing with myself.”_

_When he was finally in front of Sherlock’s chair he held out a hand, hips never stilling, in an obvious invitation. Sherlock sneered and pushed the hand away. John was an idiot if he thought Sherlock was going to something so ridiculous._

_“So let's sink another drink, 'cause it'll give me time to think” the doctor raised an eyebrow and extended his hand again, undeterred by the blatant rejection “If I had the chance, I'd ask the world to dance; and I'll be dancing with myself.”_

_A scathing reply was on the tip of his tongue before the blonde eyebrow hiked higher and the short tan fingers crooked demandingly. With a put upon sigh and a roll of his eyes Sherlock dropped his feet to the floor and placed his hand in John’s, allowing himself to be pulled up and to John’s body._

_For the first few moments he stood stiffly against the other but relaxed when it became clear that John wasn’t going to let go. Slowly he began to emulate the army Captain’s movements and just like that they were dancing together in their living room like fools—like the kind of people he would sneer at and call idiots— but Sherlock wasn’t quite so bored anymore._

He was pulled from the memory by the pinging of his text alert. He left the song playing and moved to the kitchen to retrieve it from the table. It was Lestrade with a case. Some small, stupid, hope in him died and he scoffed in disgust at himself. Of course it was Lestrade. Fingers quickly typed out a reply before setting the phone down. After a moment he picked it up again and sent a quick text to a number he wasn’t even sure was still in service, before pressing the send button he brushed his lips across the screen in a soft kiss as if it could somehow be attached to the digital message.

_Good morning John, I love you.—SH_

With that he set the phone down and left it on the table as he walked to his bedroom without his usual interesting-case-swagger. He was too exhausted; he was too exhausted to do much of anything lately, much less muster up anything close to the satisfied joy he used to get from taking on an interesting case.

* * *

 

Across town another phone beeped to alert its owner to an incoming text message. A hand blindly reached for it, slapping the table and crawling across the wood in search of the piece of plastic. Blue eyes open sleeping only to squeeze shut tightly when they read the text. The phone was brought to a broad chest and clutched there as the man in the bed let out a miserable sigh.

It wasn’t bloody fair. How was he supposed to get over the detective if the great berk continued to text him every morning?

John sighed and opened his eyes, pushing himself to sit against the headboard of his bed as he scrolled through the past messages. Thirty-one messages. One for every day since the night John had left. And they all said the same thing _“Good morning John, I love you.—SH”_ as if that was something acceptable to send to the person whose heart you broke.

Fucking dammit. John threw the phone down on the bed and buried his face in his hands. He couldn’t keep doing this. He should just change the bloody number and be done with it. The thought made his entire body spasm in a protesting twitch as a sick feeling twisted his insides. He dropped his hands. He’d think about this later. He had work.

* * *

 

Sherlock pushed the door of 221B open, hung his coat on its hook, and flopped lifelessly on the couch. He lay slumped over for almost thirty minutes before springing up and scrambling to check his phone. With clumsy hands he pulled it out of his coat pocket and checked the messages, throat tight in anticipation. Nothing. Just like every day before. His throat closed farther as bile rose and the detective wondered if it was too early to go to bed. He glanced at the digital clock on his phone. 7:45. That was a no then.

Swallowing the sleeping pills dry, Sherlock dropped his clothes carelessly on the floor, reaching dazedly for his pajama bottoms and the tattered army shirt that had been in the dirty clothes pile when John had left. The detective pulled the shirt on; ignoring the smell of stale sweat that lingered around the armpits of the shirt he inhaled deeply at the neckline. Since it had never been washed it still smelled strongly of the doctor, even after a month of the dark haired man wearing it.

Dropping onto the bed, he curled himself into the sheets and waited for the pills to take effect. Slipping into the drug induced sleep he never noticed the door to the flat opening, or the tell-tale sign of an umbrella against the floorboards.

 

* * *

 

John groaned as the black car pulled up to the curb and the door swung open, forcing him to either stop or run over someone on the crowded street trying to swerve. He ducked his head to tell Anthea—or whatever her name was—to piss off, only to blink in surprise as the face of Mycroft Holmes stared back at him. The older Holmes brother had never actually come in the cars he sent to pick John up.

“Get in, John,” Mycroft murmured politely.

John mentally shook himself “Fuck off, Mycroft.”

The older Holmes pursed his lips and then sighed “John,” he sighed wearily, with the air of someone who was suddenly very tired “I do understand that you are upset with my brother, and I understand why, however, I would like to ask you again to get in.”

John rolled his eyes. Mycroft didn’t ask the first time, pushy bastard. He slid into the car anyway and fastened himself in as the car pulled smoothly into the traffic.

“Why am I hear, Mycroft?” John asked, tilting his head back against the seat. He felt as exhausted as Mycroft sounded.

“It’s about Sherlock—” the man began only to have John cut him off with a swift ‘I don’t care, let me out.’

Mycroft shot the younger man a look “John, please.”

The corners of the doctor’s mouth tightened but he didn’t say anything.

“Lately, Sherlock has been sleeping a large amount, more so than he ever has in the past.” Mycroft began but paused slightly.

The blonde took advantage of the brief silence “So he’s sleeping better now than he ever did with me, congratulations, now really, let me out and fuck off.”

“John.” This time it really was pleading, not just a put upon sigh and John froze, really looking at the other man for the first time. He looked stressed, lines spread from the corner of his eyes and he had dark bruises under them. John had never seen the man look so worried, not even when Sherlock had been dismembering Moriarty’s web.

“Thank you,” Mycroft said softly before clearing his throat “My brother has been sleeping more because he’s taken to “popping” sleeping pills. Constantly. Sometimes as early as noon.”

John held back a horrified look and barely managed to keep his voice steady as the question “Why?” slipped from between his numbed lips.

“Because he sees no reason to be awake when what he needs is in his dreams.”

It sounded almost like some sort of philosophical romantic bullshit, and John would have taken it as so if it weren’t for the serious look on the older man’s face.

“What do you mean?” he asked instead.

“You, John, he’s dreaming of you, he needs you.” The words were said evenly, but John caught a tense undertone. His jaw tightened.

“If he needs me so damned badly, then why wasn’t he there?” John snapped tightly. That bastard didn’t give a damn and John was so bloody mad at the fat bastard sitting in front of him, digging into his wounds for no reason.

“I think we should go inside and I will explain everything.”

It was then that John realized that the car was idling outside of Baker Street. One look at Mycroft and John knew that he wasn’t getting out of this. With a frustrated sigh he shook his head anyway.

“He’s not here John, I have temporarily…relocated Sherlock.”

The doctor let his head thunk back against the seat before heaving another sigh and unbuckling himself; might as well get this over with so he could go back to his life.

John froze when Mycroft pushed the door to the bedroom—Sherlock’s bedroom, not his, not theirs—but was spurred into action by the look that the Holmes sent him. With a silent wave of his hand, the British Government directed John to the dresser where a large silver box sat. Upon closer inspection John realized what it was.

“What on Earth…” he mumbled to himself as he stepped closer. Why would Sherlock have one of these, and what was so important that Mycroft had to bring him here to look at it.

An army green bow was tied neatly to the handle with a small card stapled to the end of the ribbon.

_Happy Anniversary, John—SH_

John let the card slip from his fingers as he caught a glimpse of the date. The card was dated the day of their anniversary. He didn’t understand, why would Sherlock have this? He felt t numb, like all of his blood had suddenly disappeared from his body.  With a shaking hand he reached out to pick up the card again and read it once more, running a thumb gently over the cursive script. His eyes narrowed and he sat the card to the side when he noticed something else taped to the back of the boombox.

**Retro Restorations**

**5/7/20xx**

The rest of the paper was blacked out by marker so that what had been bought and its price where untellable. At the bottom of the receipt was an address and John furrowed his eyebrows, Canterbury? His body went slack in realization and he collapsed to the floor, like a marionette whose strings had been cut.

“Why?” the word slipped out, and then it slipped out again and again and again as tears spilled over the rims of his eyes. Why had Sherlock gotten him this if he wasn’t interested in celebrating their anniversary? Why hadn’t the detective just told him? Why did Sherlock keep it? Why? Why? Why? Why? Why?

The sound of a button clicking down caused him to halt. He fell onto his back in a crumpled mess, limbs splayed lifelessly in uncomfortable positions when the song began to play. _Dancing With Myself_. Their song. Their song was playing. Their song was on the tape that was in Sherlock’s player. Why?

Deep in the pit of his stomach, nearly overpowered by the grief he was feeling, was a small ball of warmth when he thought about when the song had become theirs. Sherlock was so stubborn; he always needed John to give him a little nudge, to give him that second chance. 

The tears flowed more freely at the thought.

He turned his head and watched Mycroft through his tears. He still didn’t understand, not really.

“John,” Mycroft nearly whispered as his sat on the bed heavily. “You must understand, everything that Sherlock is, is a product of his upbringing, and I’m afraid to say I failed to protect him from our Mother when he was a child.”

That caused the doctor to sit up and watch the other man silently.

“When we were younger, my mother was struggling with an undiagnosed chemical imbalance that often led her to have a short temper and would lash out viciously at anyone in her vicinity. Unfortunately, Sherlock was often one of those people.”

“I’m afraid this has left Sherlock somewhat damaged in his thinking.” He held up a hand to stop John from speaking.

“I won’t go into details now; that’s not what’s important.”

John’s eyes narrowed. How in the bloody hell were Sherlock’s past mental traumas not important?

“John, Sherlock has sabotaged every relationship he could even think of forming ever since he was a child. Sometimes I believe he didn’t even know he was doing it. I will admit I was very surprised to learn that the two of you had decided to date. I never hoped to even dream of him finding someone he wouldn’t push away, and then it seemed like he couldn’t push you away if he tried. You are so loyal John, so devastatingly loyal.”

John stared at Mycroft, unable to say anything. He was unable to even think of anything to say.

“When did you tell Sherlock you loved him for the first time?”

John blinked and furrowed his brow, what did that have to do with anythi—he blinked “The morning of our first anniversary, I wanted it to be special.”

Mycroft nodded knowingly. “I had thought so, if you’d said it early, it would’ve triggered him sooner.”

“Triggered, what? What are you talking about Mycroft?” John snapped, he was so tired and he still didn’t understand what this had to do with anything.

“He was trying, do you realize that? He was trying so very hard not to do something wrong, trying so hard to keep you with him, but he managed to sabotage himself anyway, and he didn’t even realize that was what he was doing. The…” Mycroft makes a face here and John almost slightly wants to chuckle “the ‘boombox’ was finished the day before your anniversary, but he decided to wait, decided that he could make it back in time and when he didn’t and you texted, he went on the defensive. Because that’s what he does. When someone sets to attack him, if they even seem like they’re going to attack him, he strikes first.”

The more Mycroft said, the more upset John felt. By the end the doctor was choking back heaving sobs as everything he had been feeling the past month was ripped from the dark corner he had tucked it in and forced into his face for him to confront.

“What are you saying, Mycroft,” he managed to say without a gasping sob crashing through “that he didn’t mean to?”

Mycroft focused sullen eyes on him “That’s exactly what I’m saying Dr. Watson.”

John nodded “I want to talk to him.” He was going to find out what the hell was going on, and he was going to kick Sherlock's arse if that had night just been an accident. He was going to beat every moment of pain he'd felt over the past month into the idiot detective, and then....Well, John would just have to see what the detective said before he could decide what he would do afterwards.

“Of course.”

* * *

 

John had to bite his lip to keep from crying out as his eyes took in the lump on the bed. Sherlock was so thin, almost dangerously underweight. Mycroft had explained to him in the car that Sherlock hadn’t been doing so well since the doctor had left. He told John that the detective rarely took cases and never ate at all.

He stumbled over to the bed and crawled on it, leaning against the headboard and settling in. He was prepared to sit here and watch the dark haired genius until he woke up.

As he stared at the pale, gaunt face of his ex-lover—and the term, like always, sent a wave a pain down his spine; only this time, it was worse because he understood now. He absently stroked the phone in his pocket before pulling it out and opening the last message he’d received.

_Good morning, John. I love you.—SH_

John hadn’t been sure why Sherlock kept sending him the messages. Surely, he had thought, if the detective loved him, he would’ve been there for their anniversary. He would’ve tried.

But now, now John thought of the boombox sitting on the dresser, and how John had told Sherlock one time that he’d wished he could find one in decent condition because his smaller tape player was crap. Sherlock had listened to him. Sherlock had listened to his rant and remembered, he hadn’t deleted it like he does everything else unrelated to cases or his experiments. The doctor also thought about the texts. The same thing every morning right after John got up, before he even got in the shower. Just like it had been the first time John had said ‘I love you’ to Sherlock.

John had just woken up and the first thing he did was roll to face the genius who was lazing spread-eagle beside him in bed. John had maneuvered he way around the gangly limbs to brush a soft, loving kiss to a high cheek bone and when he pulled away he whispered a simple “Good morning, Sherlock. I love you,” in the detective’s ear before rolling away and padding towards the bathroom to get ready for the day.

The blonde doctor stared down at his love now and brushed a hand over dark curls. He had missed this man like a limb. He’d never felt so lost in his life. Even when he was so mad he couldn’t think the younger man’s name without snarling like a beast, John could admit to himself that he missed the genius detective.

Sherlock let out a sigh underneath John’s hand and pushed his head into the stroking fingers but otherwise didn’t stir and John held back a chuckle.

Stubborn man. He never could just tell John what he wanted; he would always just make little gestures and expect the doctor to know what they meant. And maybe that was the problem. John mused with a blink. Sherlock rarely got emotions and what to do with them right the first time around. He had always needed John to explain what he’d done wrong and a second chance. That was alright though, because John had always been willing to give the detective one more chance to get it right, and he was started to suspect that he would always be willing to give Sherlock that second chance if the detective was willing to take it.

John leaned back against the bed. He could think more about that later, after Sherlock and he had the time to talk about what had happened and how much begging Sherlock was going to have to do for John to take him back.

With a smirk at the thought, John let his head fall back against the headboard. Oh yes, there was going to be a lot of groveling in the detective’s future. Now John just had to wait for the detective to wake up.

 The smirk dropped when he thought about what else Mycroft had told him, about Sherlock sending those harsh words because he thought that John was going to verbally attack him. They were going to have to work on Sherlock trusting John to not hurt him. John was also going to have to stay far, far away from the Holmes matriarch, because he would kill her for treating Sherlock the way she did.

* * *

 

 

Sherlock stirred to life hazily and opened his eyes only to frown, the clock on the nightstand read 12:00 am. Too early to be up. He clumsily fumbled his hands across the nightstand, searching for his bottle of pills.

“They aren’t here.”

That voice. His heart constricted and then relaxed. He was still asleep. That was good. That was perfect, actually. He turned towards the source of the voice and grinned “John,” he sighed happily, reaching up a hand to stroke the perfect face in front of him. Tan hands came up to catch his own and he almost frowned before they brought his limb up to press a kiss into the center of the palm.

The detective hummed and curled towards the body sitting on the bed, fitting his head snuggly into the denim covered lap. He let his eyes flutter shut as a hand threaded through his hair and massaged his scalp. This was the best dream he’d had yet. Was it possible that the quality of his dreams was correlated to the amount of pills he took? He’d have to test the theory.

Before his eyes closed completely, the detective noticed something that had him springing up, or would’ve had, if he weren’t still so dazed by the sleeping pills.

He wasn’t in Baker Street. He wasn’t at home. This was Mycroft’s house. He would never dream of being in his brother’s home, and that meant….

He turned to the man that sat against the headboard “John?” He asked tremulously. He thought he might absolutely break if this was a hallucination.

“I’m here Sherlock,” John soothed and reached out to pull the trembling detective to him.

“Go back to sleep, I’ll be here when you get up,” the blonde smiled before his mouth set into a serious line “Because I'm going to kick your arse and then we're going to have a talk about what you’ve done and how you’re going to fix it when you get up.”

The man smiled slightly, softly, again and pressed a sweet, chaste kiss to the detective’s lips. They weren’t okay at the moment, exactly, but John knew they would be. After all, Consulting Detectives were notoriously stubborn, but all they needed where second chances to get it right. And since John was looking at the only one in the world he figured that it was probably the right thing to do because while there would never be another, there would always be that second chance.

**Author's Note:**

> Seriously guys, review. I worked really hard on this and would like to know what you thought, even if it was just "Sherlock was completely OCC"


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